


Turning

by MakzwehlEdison



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26108812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MakzwehlEdison/pseuds/MakzwehlEdison
Summary: A character background I did for @Aries_2256.
Kudos: 2





	Turning

“Well, I’d really been thinking about ‘Aomame’ if we DO get to choose.”

Hūrin’s machete cuts through yet another low-lying limb as the two of you trek further into the jungle— uncomfortably far from your hotel in Port Nyanzaru.

“What does it mean?” you ask. You’re fluent in their native tongue, but their naming practices are still foreign to you.

They chuckle softly, then grunt as they pull the machete from the stubborn palm roots. 

“Green peas… But it’s so very pretty, the way it rolls off the tongue!” 

You laugh and shake your head. 

“I’m sure we won’t get the luxury of naming them, ‘Rin. Besides; I’ve been thinking maybe we should go a little older for our first one?”

“First!? ...of how many?” Hūrin turns and looks at you, anxiously. You can’t help but notice the beauty between the matted, sweat-drenched ebony hair and you stop to smile at their hesitation. You shrug. Wide-eyed, they continue forth. You enjoy the view of their backside before your eyes rest on the large silvered scabbard—no, Hūrin has corrected you before; when it’s a katana it’s called a ‘saya’. You look at your feet and continue forward.

Hūrin hadn’t considered having children at all until they met you. They’d been fully committed to the war effort on the eastern front. Losing a leg in battle changes your priority. You remember fondly the day they were finally cognitive in that ramshackle excuse for a hospital. You’d been purposefully walking by their bed (the long way ‘round) since the Spotted Fever finally broke and the doc gave you the ‘okay’ to move freely about the building. After that first ‘hello’, the two of you had never been the same. 

Unable to pull quite the weight they’d used to, they were forced into mercenary work—about the only thing still available for old war dogs these days. Luckily your patron, the volatile old Countess Grimshaw, had room in the budget for a personal attaché and a soft spot for young love. 

Here you two were, 7 years later, bandying about in the tropics on a search for remnants of a lost cult to an ancient goddess of the moon—far and away a better life than you’d expected for yourself at this age. The luck you’d had—your father’s will connecting you to the Countess, the subsequent funding of your Anthropology degree, meeting Hūrin—was better than a halfling’s, surely!

You call out to them; “Honestly, I just hope they’re health—“ You stop when you see the look in Hūrin’s eyes as they’re crouched beneath a thicket of brambles, one thin finger over their dark lips; their hazel eyes wide beneath a deep furrowed brow. 

You listen. 

At first you hear nothing. Then… just over the oppressive faunal sounds, you begin to hear a rhythmic chanting.

………..blessi okkur  
með barninu ———  
æska —— endurreist  
að endurfæð—

As you sit down next to Hūrin, you can barely make out the three tall figures in deep blue robes, each of their eyes locked to the bright, sunlit sky. As they chanted, they seemed to be standing on a triangular dais, each standing on a carved circle in each of the isosceles angles. 

You slowly reach into your satchel to pull out your translation notes. Your eyes furiously dart over each page, landing on a word you think you caught that loosely translates to “feed” when you notice the chanting has stopped. You look up in terror and in the moonlight, Hūrin’s eyes are frozen in horror. 

You squint through the darkness. Something isn’t right, you think to yourself. You try to see what each figure is doing. The first seems to be in deep conversation with the second. The third has doubled over as if… are they in pain? Hard to tell in just the light of the moon. And the fourth— much larger than the rest, was surveying…

You go rigid. 

You look at the sky. 

The full moon hangs above you; unwelcome as a divining eye, lasciviously drinking you in as if you were helpless, naked, and alone. 

The shock of the sun’s unprecedented early departure from the clockwork sky slowly wears off and you look back at the figures. There are three again. 

Again? Hadn’t there always been three? The two at the bottom corners and the third… so much taller than the others. It had to have been seven, no eight… and what is it doing? Your eyes begin to adjust to the pale moonlight and you can tell that the large figure was smelling the air… 

It lunges toward you.

「死ぬ獣‼︎」you hear Hūrin scream from beside you. 

The flash of steel. The jarring pain. You’re not sure which came first.

————————————————————————

“She’s finally sent a group back to Chult, ダーリン. Hopefully they can find a clue as to who it was that— well whatever they were doing out there. She’s none too happy about it.”

「しょうがさい」you say, echoing a phrase from their home language that roughly translates to “It is what it is.”

“So long as they didn’t hurt you, I’m fine.”

“My big, strong man!” they cooed, blowing you a kiss.

A month after the incident, you find yourself back in your and Hūrin’s luxurious suite at the Countess’s in Phandelin. Returning as damaged goods without much new information on long-lost civilizations hadn’t pleased Lady Grimshaw. But she had been gracious in her severance pay for your injuries. 

“Enough to cover the adoption fees AND get us a new place! Maybe even in Waterdeep!” Hūrin had said. 

Time having past, you were starting to come around to the idea things had gone back to normal. The wound, however, had not. 

You look down and hiss as Hūrin finishes bandaging your bleeding arm. Why did it have to be the one I write with? 

“Just try and get some sleep, okay? It’s been a month and this thing hasn’t healed, so we’re going to the Lathander temple bright and early. I’m officially worried enough to involve clerics.”

“Okay, sweetheart.” You kiss them gingerly on the forehead and lie down for another fitful nights’ rest. You turn over and glare out the window. The full moon mocks you as you close your eyes and float away into—

A piercing scream.

You wake up. 

The morning sun streaks through the foyer’s sprawling windows.

You wipe your eyes and feel a slick, sticky wetness trail across your face. You go to wipe it off on your shirt—you touch skin. That explains the chill. You become acutely aware that your wound is not only healed… it’s disappeared completely. Confused and embarrassed at your lack of dress, you turn and see the Countess staring at you in abject horror. You cover yourself in modesty, shaking off the sleep

“What have you…. You’ve killed them!”

Still confused, you look to the front door. Furious and violent scratch marks covered the house’s main exit. They must have been three inches deep into the mahogany. A glint of silver catches your eye as you see what was holding the door shut. A scabbard—no,”saya” has been shoved through the handles, effectively locking everything in. 

Finally, you notice the crumpled form of Hūrin...what remained of them...lying in front of the door, arms outstretched in an attempted embrace...


End file.
